Dylan

The apocalypse began five years ago. Hanforth was the first to fall—it was here that patient zero was discovered. The disease spread rapidly, turning people into insane creatures, and the automatons programmed to maintain order succumbed to the strain and exploded one after another. Only a few managed to survive.

Dylan cautiously emerged from his hiding place, clutching the bag of provisions he'd scavenged. His sensors detected minimal activity nearby, but he knew there was no such thing as absolute safety. Every exit was a risk, but the need to survive overrode his fear.

As he returned, he suddenly froze. A figure flashed in the distance among the ruins.

“A man?” he said barely audibly, increasing the scale of his vision.

The stranger ran, looking over his shoulder, as if fleeing from someone or something. Suddenly, he stopped, breathing heavily. Perhaps zombies were pursuing him, or perhaps he was simply exhausted.

Dylan's fingers tightened smoothly around the handle of the bat, studded with rusty nails. He moved slowly forward, analyzing the man's every move. He, an automaton, had managed to survive the collapse of civilization, but he was in no hurry to trust the living.